


Fickle Mistress

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For accioslash's prompt: fleeting/melancholy/joy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fickle Mistress

Joy, in Severus’s experience, is always a fleeting thing. It cannot be held in one’s grasp. It cannot be bottled, stoppered, stored on a shelf; one cannot reach for it, and drink it at will. Joy is elusive, a flickering flame, barely lit before it’s doused by the constancy of rain. Joy never lasts; joy always dies. 

One might think that not having will only cause one to want, to search what is missing. Once, when he was young, Severus tried. After all, joy seemed to come to everyone else with such ease; it knocked on their door daily, embraced them as a friend. So he sought joy, he hunted, determined to catch it. Perhaps -- thus went his reasoning -- if he worked hard enough, he’d discover its secret. Perhaps, he thought later, when it still kept on slipping, he’d just have to trick it: cajole and manipulate, creep up on joy where it least expected him. 

With time, though, he learned. Joy is for some, but was never for him. 

Joy is a poison. It slip-slides its way into your veins, until you’re addicted, only to vanish. Whilst you have it, it’s great; it’s sublime, but in its wake it leaves only destruction. Melancholy soon follows, then anger, despair -- and would any of them taste quite as bitter without that sweet rush to compare? Without joy in the world, the darkness might well be grey rather than black, without joy, it would be bearable. 

Joy is the ultimate Slytherin. It flirts with you, reels you in, subtly, then uses, discards. It laughs at you, mocking, as you beg it to stay. Joy abides only with those it holds in its favour. 

Those, Severus knows, who deserve it. 

He hates joy. He doesn’t need it. Joy’s made it clear he’s not welcome, so he’ll hunt it no more. Joy’s shut the door on him long since, so he won’t linger, won’t hope. 

And yet... and yet, here he lies, on shivering sheets, running his fingers through black, tousled hair. Harry shifts in his sleep, burrows closer. Severus watches, entranced, tracing the shell of his ear, and joy bubbles through him. It consumes him, closes his throat, bursts his heart through his sternum, thundering, wild. 

It can’t be real. He should run, now, flee, hide and burrow, whilst he has time. He should wait out this storm on the sidelines, watch it pass without touching, because he knows, oh, he knows that the higher he rises, the harder the merciless fall. 

He should go, because joy is a poison. But if joy is a drug, then he is an addict, and he can’t help but slide, as he pulls Harry near and closes his eyes, thinking maybe, just maybe, if he’s lucky...

Perhaps he had it all wrong. Perhaps joy was just waiting for the right time in his life.


End file.
